


The Day of Rest

by putconspiraciesinit



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Child Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Family Dinners, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Prayer, Religious Content, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 22:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21363511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putconspiraciesinit/pseuds/putconspiraciesinit
Summary: A typical sunday with the Edwardses.
Relationships: Aaron Burr & the Edwards family
Kudos: 19





	The Day of Rest

Aaron hated going to church. The things the preachers said were always alarming and disturbing, and they reminded Aaron of his grandfather, the terrifying figure that haunted his nightmares to this day, but church was better than home. Aaron knew what to say in church. It was a routine one could memorize. There was a  _ pattern _ to it.

None of them would say it out loud, but everybody in the Timothy Edwards household hated Sundays.

Aaron had his suspicions that Timothy and Rhoda and the other adults hated them as much as he did. They were, being older, better at hiding it, but no other day of the week saw this sort of behavior from them.

Not that somebody who wasn’t part of the family would have even noticed any difference in their behavior. They had to keep up the appearance of respectability. But Aaron noticed. There was a quiet fury in the way Rhoda paced the length of the living-room, a barely-hidden ire in the way Timothy sat in his chair. Over the years, Aaron had learned to tell just from the sound of their footsteps whether or not he and his cousins were in for a show; but on Sundays, he didn’t have to. It was inevitable. It was only a matter of what would set them off this time, and when.

Nobody spoke.

Not one word. It was an unspoken rule; no conversation on Sundays. ‘Walking on eggshells’ didn’t quite convey the reason why. It was more like being a soldier, walking through an unfamiliar location in enemy territory in the dead of the night, knowing one word could get you shot. Here, one word could set someone off and then sooner or later the whole family would follow until the house was shaking with the noise of fourteen people shrieking and screeching and fighting and screaming--it wasn’t worth it.

After church, every still and silent hour lasted a century.

When the family returned home, the way Lucy closed the front door told Aaron to keep his mouth shut more effectively than any spoken command could have.

The clock ticked, the family sat around.

Nobody spoke.

The sun began to set. Timothy called everybody to the dinner table. Adrenaline coursed through Aaron’s veins as though he were a death row prisoner on his last day rather than a twelve-year-old boy being called to eat dinner with his family.

“Gracious God, you are the protector and preserver of the whole creation. You have fed us all our lives to this day with food convenient for us, even though we are evil and unthankful. Forgive all our sins by which we have forfeited all your mercies, and let us see our forfeited right restored in Christ Jesus. Amen,” said Timothy, in an overly-practiced, almost rushed sort of way.  _ The voice _ , Aaron called it. Nothing good happened when Timothy did  _ the voice _ .

“Amen,” responded everybody else at the table.

Aaron realized his hands were shaking as he grasped his fork and tried to work up the motivation to actually eat. He watched Timothy and Rhoda. Even the way they ate their food was angry in some inexplicable way.

“It’s rude to stare,” snapped Rhoda.

“I wasn’t staring,” retorted Aaron, realizing the tone of his voice too late.

“Don’t take that tone with your aunt, Aaron,” growled Timothy.

“I only told her that I wasn’t staring!” This was it, wasn’t it? Might as well get it over with, then.

“And don’t you take that tone with me, either!”

“What tone?”

“Keep up this attitude and—”

“This isn’t an  _ attitude _ , I just—”

“Don’t interrupt me!” roared Timothy. “You’re not to speak for the rest of the day or so help me God, you will regret it.”

It was always dinner.

“And don’t eat so quickly! Edward, you too! Dinner is a family occasion. None of you are to leave this table until I dismiss you!”

One-year-old Mark, distressed by the noise, began crying.

“Be quiet!” yelled Rhoda, slapping the infant’s hand. He only cried louder.

The other younger children all looked to be barely holding back panic.

Aaron and Sally had long since learned not to cry, but Aaron couldn’t stop himself shaking, and Sally balled her hands into tight fists and stared very intently at the wall across from her chair.

Dinner barely lasted more than half an hour, but it  _ felt _ like half an eternity.

Aaron stood up the second the last person to finish set down their cutlery, and used every ounce of self-control he had to walk towards his room instead of running. He heard Timothy get up. Angry footsteps approached him. He bolted for his room, dashed inside and rushed to close the door.

The window was open.

Timothy flung the door open. It hit the wall with a loud and startling  _ bang _ noise that had become familiar to the Edwards family over the years.

Aaron grabbed his coat from his bed and leapt through the window, ready to run for it. This time,  _ this _ time, he’d make it. Somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t here. He landed outside rather ungracefully, stood up, and  _ ran _ .

***

Monday dinner, it was Edward who managed to set them off; in true four-year-old fashion, he refused to eat. Tuesday, it was Matt. He had made some sort of sarcastic remark to Rhoda. Wednesday, it was Mark.

Aaron could hear the yelling and screaming from the closet Timothy had thrown him in as punishment for his latest escape attempt. He clutched at his bruised arms and thought of alternative routes he might take next time.


End file.
